


Darling, Dear, and Other Ways to Say 'I Love You"

by Frog_that_writes



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: 5+1 Times, Death of a pet, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe if y'all had commented more, Nah jk i was just busy, Sick Character, Sorry the chapter is late this week, Takes place pre-series, Torture, au where homophobia doesn't exist cause fuck that, bullshit medical information, disgusting overuse of terms of endearment, i put way too much effort into the songs please appreciate that, is this technically slowbrun?, its not super graphic but it happens so, its the most slowburn thing ive ever written so, schedule subject to change, updates every Sunday (for now)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:16:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frog_that_writes/pseuds/Frog_that_writes
Summary: 5 times Owen and Curt managed to say "I love you" without words, and 1 time they used them





	1. Cold Medicine and Tea/ Darling

_Oh! Darling, please believe me_  
_I'll never do you no harm..._

_When you told me you didn't need me anymore_  
_Well you know I nearly broke down and cried_

  _\- "Oh! Darling"_ The Beatles

* * *

 

“Cavour, I know this is only our third mission together, but can I just say that I don’t remember your voice being quite so nasally and grating.” Curt cut in as soon as their were no supervisors around to tell him off about playing nice with the international agents. 

They had just finished the pre-mission briefing, which had involved a fair amount of their superiors, Cynthia and whoever Cavour’s chick was, he was always bad at names, telling them things very firmly and them responding with “Yes, ma'am.” Every time it was Cavour’s turn to squeak out a response, he noticed that his partner sounded rather under the weather and worn out. Tired. 

A tired partner made for a less quick thinking partner, and a less quick thinking partner made for a more dangerous mission. And this mission was already plenty dangerous enough. 

This was one of the rare missions where Cynthia wasn’t making her affectionate attempts on his life, which was an instant indicator that he needed to be in top shop and not poisoned for this particular adrenaline junkie fix. 

Of course, the very fact that they were being briefed together made that clear as well. There could be no room for doubt on this one. They couldn’t just be sent out into the field with knowledge gained from a barely skimmed case file, a few tranquilizer darts and their superiors barely being aware of them enough to know they were working cases. 

This case meant they were starting to rise the ranks, and despite himself Curt found his excitement growing. Of course, it would all be fucked if his partner blew it because of a head cold.

Of course, that was entirely why it mattered to him. It would reflect poorly on him if his partner ruined an important case. Never mind the fact that he had seen Cavour take on cases of similar difficulty with stab wounds. He was just being cautious. For once in his life.

“Fuck you, Mega,” he muttered out before sneezing. Oh boy. 

“You are fine to take this case, aren’t you?” He let concern fill his voice as he watched his partner closely. They were walking together out of the building and towards the agency car where a man was waiting to drop them off at the airport where they would be catching the next flight to Turkey. 

“Obviously I am, Curt, or I wouldn’t have sat through that briefing and I wouldn’t be climbing into a car with you right now would I?” He asked bitterly. 

“Jesus, Owen, I’m just looking out for you.” He raised his hands in conceded defeat. He couldn’t resist adding another a few bitter words of his own into the mix however. “If it makes you that upset I won’t bother.”

“Owen?” The anger in his expression suddenly vanished and was replaced with confusion.

“Yes, that _is_ your name, good job darling!” Curt complimented sarcastically.

“No, I mean. You called me that. Owen.” The British spy explained. Curt’s sarcasm suddenly vanished.

“Well, you called me Curt first. I was just returning the favor.” Curt tried not to let his worry increase ten fold as he saw the slightly confused expression on his partner’s face as he slowly nodded.

“Right. I did. Of course, you’re right.” He nodded again before shaking his head, seemingly trying to get his germ addled brain to catch up to him. “Say, love, you wouldn’t mind if I caught up a bit on my sleep on the way to the airport, would you? Time zone differences and all that.” He asked politely. 

Curt reassured him that of course he didn’t mind. He was polite enough to not mention that he knew enough about different time zones to know it was only about 6 pm in the United Kingdom where Owen was usually stationed. 

* * *

 

Later, when they were separated while discreetly collecting intel from some of the locals, Curt thought nothing of a quick bit stop into a corner store to buy a bottle of cold syrup. When they were safely back in their cheap pay-by-day motel Curt knocked on his partners door and handed him the bag, filled with the cough syrup as well as a box of tea bags, since he had realized their rooms only had coffee grounds, he silently nodded at the thankful look on the other’s face. 

* * *

 

The next day, when he was looking marginally better and Curt realized he was lacking the heat he hadn’t even noticed his partner had been radiating the previous day, he privately thought that he would like to think he had had something to do with that. 

* * *

 

They finished the mission a few days later and went home right as Owen’s cold started to disappear completely. It was too bad, Curt had been looking forward to having a conversation with his stupid posh voice without it sounding like he had something shoved up his nose. Oh well, there was sure to be another case that they would paired together for in the future. It may be the distant future, but it would happen.


	2. Confessions and Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i almost forgot to post this today lmao i still have few minutes left before minute tho so

_ Everyone's got a thing, a thing they don't like... _

_ He won't look in your eyes  
Friend, I knew every time you were lying _

_ -" Dear" Cavetown _

* * *

 

As it stood, there next case together happened much sooner than the two had been expecting.

It only took about a month before there was a british accent echoing through the cramped offices where the American Secret Service spent their time off cases.

“Curt, love, happy to see me again?” He was suddenly greeted with the sight of a crooked jaw and brown eyes peering over his cubicle wall.

“If it means that I get to go on a real mission again and get to make some intern take care of all of this paperwork then God yes.” Curt sighed and stretched, popping nearly every bone from his neck to his toes to punctuate the statement to a disgusted Owen. He let his expression fall into one of mock indignation.

“Wow, I see where I stand then. Just an excuse to get out of paperwork. All you Americans are the same,” he sniffed pretentiously.

“Glad you’re aware of it at least. I am assuming you’re here because we have a mission together?” Curt asked to clarify seeing as the brit still wouldn’t answer him.

“Well I  _ was  _ but maybe I’ll request a new partner now,” he replied.

“You know none of the higher ups would agree to that. We work too well together,” Curt said with an obnoxious grin. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Owen gave a put upon sigh. “Well, let’s roll out Mega. I’ll brief you on the way since it seems Cynthia was too busy to catch you today.”

As both walked away, Curt’s voice carrying his amusement at Owen saying “roll out.” They failed to notice the looks the agents in the cubicles around them exchange glances and begin taking bets.

 

“And another toast to kicking that guy in the  _ dick!”  _ A very inebriated Curt all but shouted from the booth he and Owen were sharing in the back of the bar. A much more sober Owen simply laughed and clinked his glass of diet coke against Curt’s whisky placatingly.

“I believe you already said that one four toasts ago, dear.” He laughed. They were currently celebrating an wend to a mission well done. They had figured that since their transport wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow anyways, they might as well have a little fun and pat themselves on the back. Owen should have known it was just an excuse for Curt to get drunk.

“Oh. Well then, that one doesn’t count so I have to take another shot.” The logic clearly made some sort of sense to the drunk agent, who had started smiling upon this having this realization, but Owen wasn’t going to get through a whole mission without his partner dying just for him to turn around and kick the bucket because of alcohol poisoning. 

“No, I believe you’ve had quite enough for the night,” Owen said lightly. “I believe it's time for us to retire. We’ve got to be up bright and early tomorrow to catch that flight home.”

“You can go if you want, but I’m staying here. Cynthia’s not going to be any more mad if I have a few more drinks,” Curt shrugged.

“While that may be true I believe your liver might have a different opinion,” Owen smiled.

“Fuck off, Cavour. I don’t need you to be my fucking dad.” Curt angrily slammed his shot glass on to the table so hard Owen was surprised it didn’t shatter.

Not one to be easily swayed, he simply gave Curt a glare and began ushering him out of the booth. Despite his apparent anger, Curt didn’t put up much of a fight beyond shakily trying to push against his partner’s chest. 

“It’s bed time. Let’s go,” Owen laughed, perhaps enjoying the experience of Curt being drunk and tired too much.

“Fuck you asshole.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

* * *

 

Owen insured Curt made it back to his room unhindered, despite the drunk fighting him every step of the way. He felt himself hesitating to leave once he was safely in his room for some reason, though. To put off his inevitable departure he took the extra time to place a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol on his nightstand for when Curt inevitably woke up with a hangover while said agent got himself ready for bed. He watched him all but collapse into the hotel room bed and turned to leave before Curt spoke.

“Sorry I’m such a dick.” The voice was muffled into the pillows Curt was face down on, seemingly intent not to look at his partner for this conversation, but Owen understood nonetheless.

“Oh, it’s quite alright dear,” he laughed, hand still hovering over the door knob. “I’ve heard all about the infamous drunk Agent Mega through the grapevine. I knew what I was expecting as soon as you suggested we went to the bar.” Despite his words intending to be reassuring, Curt groaned.

“I hate that I always do this. Every time I say I’m not going to drink as much as I did last time, but I would’ve drunk myself unconscious if you hadn’t stopped me.” The unspoken ‘thank you’ hung in the air between them.

“Yes well,” he cleared his throat and straightened. “Some habits are hard to break.”

“What would perfect Owen Cavour know about bad habits?” Curt asked scathingly as he flipped over to face him.

“I started smoking when I was fifteen,” he said frankly.

“No shit!” Curt exclaimed, shooting up to a sitting position. His eyes, still glazed from alcohol, gleamed with what almost seemed to be admiration. Of course, that would impress him. “Do you still smoke?”   
“Sometimes,” Owen answered lightly. “Not nearly as much as I used to. Nasty habit. Makes everything you own smell like ash.”

“My mom used to smoke,” Curt nodded understandingly before chuckling. “Can’t believe goody two shoes Owen Cavour started smoking as a teenager.”

“Good night, Mega.” 

The sound of his obnoxious and endearing laughter followed him out the door. He wasn’t sure what the odds Curt would remember their conversation the next morning were, but he found himself strangely hoping he would, despite him having indulged a secret a very small amount of people knew about him.

Curt’s laughter was still ringing in his ears while he got himself into bed, and would remain in his thoughts for what was probably an appropriate amount of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no experience with alcohol except for the one time i drank half a can of mike's hard lemonade without realizing it has alcohol in it so like. this is very inaccurate. but??? suck it up im providing hurt/comfort fics for everyone's favorite gays  
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated uwu


	3. Staying up and Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus these chapters just keep getting longer and longer

_Head's all empty and I don't care_

_Saw my baby down by the river_

_Knew she'd have to come up soon for air - "Sugar Mongolia" by Grateful Dead_

* * *

 

Apparently, it had decided that Curt and Owen were the perfect team for any missions both that both agencies decided to take on. Something something British American relations being at an all time low, something something war. Curt very rarely listened when Cynthia started talking politics. He was strangely comfortable being a dog for his government to send when files needed retrieved or buildings needed blown up. It had never seemed important to him to know what those files contained or what he was covering up when that building went down. Or who was inside. Maybe he blocked that last one out for a different reason than boredom.

But Curt realized as he was on a plane about to meet Owen at a Russian airport, that he knew more about the British man than he did some of the people he sat next to in his own agency’s headquarters. They had been paired together for about ten missions so far, and the higher ups showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. Honestly, Curt was starting to suspect it might just be an excuse for Cynthia to see Daniels, who was basically Owen’s version of Cynthia but with a lot less poison.

But that was neither here nor there.

So they had been together for over ten missions. A number nearly unprecedented when it came to inter-agency partnerships. That was definitely enough time for patterns to start emerging, especially when you were a spy always looking for the slightest shift in someone’s body language or tone of voice.

Loathe as Curt was to admit it, one of said patterns may involve him being the more… immature of the two. Owen had expressed his distaste, usually in jest, for some of his more childlike attributes a number of times. But, despite the fact that american spy thought that they were mutually warming up to each other- added, no doubt, by his shaky and foggy memory of the night he had gotten too drunk and they had shared mutual confessions- Owen had yet to show himself as being much more than a stand out agent, always ready for the field and never showing emotion until it was safe to do so back in whatever hole they were staying in. And even then it was obvious he was sometimes holding back.

So needless to say Curt was a little shocked when he met the agent at the airport and say what were obviously tear tracks on his face. 

He opened his before he was even sure what he was going to say, probably something stupid like “are you okay” but Owen held up a hand to stop him before anything could come out. He nodded to the Russian agent who had been waiting to escort them towards the car they were being allowed for the mission and motioned for Curt to follow them.

Once in the car, which, thankfully, had been left for their use instead of forcing the poor Russian to escort them around, the spy took a moment to observe his partner further. 

Owen always insisted on driving for some reason. Even when they were in America and he complained about having to drive on the “wrong side” of the road. Normally Curt at least attempted to put up a fight, ask if the taller man doubted his driving abilities or if he was just that much of a control freak. Now though, it was quite usual for taking in the things he hadn’t been able to notice in the crowded airport. 

Owen’s hands gripped the steering wheel in a tight grip that looked almost painful, and Curt felt an odd desire to place his own rough hands over the smaller more delicate looking ones. What really caused the most concern however, was how disheveled his partner looked. Normally you would be hard pressed to find a single piece of hair not gelled back into an elegant swoop on his head, but Curt was pretty sure the only “product” in it today was water. He cast his gaze over the brit once more and noticed that he had even incorrectly done one of his buttons, which he was a little confused he hadn’t managed to notice before. Some spy he was.

“Are you okay?” He asked abruptly and unceremoniously into the previously silent car.

“Certainly,” Owen answered confidently. And then, less confidently, “Why wouldn’t I be.”

“Please,” Curt snorted. “It doesn’t take a genius to interpret from the fact that you barely even brushed your hair. You. Remember that time a few missions ago that we almost weren’t there in time to put the poison in that diplomats drink because you couldn’t find your fancy hair spray that somehow smells like lavender and dog fur at the same time?”

This at least brought the twitches of a smile to his partner’s lips, which Curt counted as a success. 

“I remember that you also couldn’t find your socks that morning,” he tore his eyes away from the road for a brief moment to give Curt a Look, before he sobered up again. “Can we talk about this later. 

Curt nodded, sensing the mood in the vehicle shifting back to gloomy. Then, realizing goody-two-shoes Owen Cavour was not about to take his eyes off the road for a second time, responded in the affirmative. 

 

“Is it later yet?” Curt spoke softly through the door after his knock had just brought a questioning hum. He usually wasn’t one to push- or at least, not one to push when it came to his partner- but they had finished the case surprisingly fast for one of them being in such a sour mood and the other being so worried, and Curt wanted to make sure in case they were extracted tomorrow. Also, this motel gave him the creeps and he was pretty sure there were peepholes in his room. There probably were in Owen’s too, but at least they could face him together.

“I suppose so,” came the muffled sigh before the door was opened to reveal the great Owen Cavour, a top M16 agent who is credited with country of Denmark still existing, wearing fluffy pajama pants covered in rubber ducks and a tank top that showed off muscular arms riddled with scars he probably got while saving the Denmarkians or whatever they’re called. 

“Nice pants,” Curt nodded. Owen seemed too distracted to do much more than nod as he flopped onto his bed. 

“You’re going to think me terribly foolish after I confess what had me so upset.”

“That’s impossible sugar because,” here Curt’s tone turned from reassuring to teasing. “I already think you’re ridiculous no matter what!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, love.” Curt was beginning to worry about how often they called each other pet names, and almost said as much before he realized the idea of stopping made his heart feel oddly heavy. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to y’know,” he commented after a few moments of silence. 

“My cat died,” he said instead of answering. 

Curt hadn’t honestly even known that Owen had a cat, but he must have been special to make the usually composed agent react like this.

“Oh shit I’m sorry. What was his name?” Owen’s lips twitched the way they always did when he was fighting a smile at something stupid.

“Purr-nest Hemingway.”

“I almost wouldn’t believe you if it hadn’t been for the fact that you would absolutely name a poor defenseless animal that.” Curt laughed. “Tell me about him.”

Owen seemed surprised, but all too happy to regale the agent with tales of his incredibly reckless cat doing things that Owen said -with a touch of fondness- reminded him of Curt. 

They did end up being extracted the next day, going their separate ways back to their agencies to complete paperwork, a good thing for the exhaustion they both felt the next morning after having talked long into the night. Neither of them regretted it though, which was clear from the happiness in the smiles they gave each other before departing, and Curt was happy to learn something about his partner’s life without having to get drunk first. 

In typical Curt fashion, he never stopped to consider exactly why it was so important to him to learn more about somehow he should have never seen more as a colleague.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!  
> i think im better at writing curt suffer than owen, so im very much looking forward to getting started on actually writing the next one lmao  
> i was going to name the cat "na-purr-leon" before remembering that joey (the guy who lays owen) played ernest hemmingway in poe's murder mystery dinner (potluck) so i thought this was fitting  
> comment cowards its my life force. if you do and you've written any thing for this fandom i promise ill check it out im desperate


	4. Angel/ Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't too similar to "Well, They Say Spies Don’t Die" by decsdumb, Nova0ne (an amazing fic you should def check out if you want more of this pairing suffering) I will admit it's the same sort of idea, but I think I made it different enough that no one will claim I'm copying lol.  
> The bit about Owen having a partner who went blind is a homage to the absolutely wonder "Carters of 50th Avenue" which is also a curt/owen fic. Please check it out, you will not regret  
> I feel like a I should insert a youtube makeup arts "not sponsored!" message here

_I will never let you fall_  
_I'll stand up with you forever_  
_I'll be there for you through it all_  
_Even if saving you sends me to heaven_

_"Your Guardian Angel" -The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus_

Owen was no stranger to seeing injuries.

Growing up, it had been common practice after school to wait for his mom at the hospital where she worked as a surgeon. Now, sitting in an emergency room waiting room while he did his homework probably wasn’t the best plan they ever came up with, but his mom had been rather unconcerned with the injuries he saw. When people questioned it, she had always said that she didn’t want her son to grow up sheltered. 

She then promptly ignored anyone who said not being sheltered and sitting in a room full of bleeding people waiting to be stitched up were different things.

Beyond his questionable upbringing, however, he had obviously seen people injured while he was working with them in the field. In fact, he had once had a partner who went permanently deaf on his first mission. They had a dangerous career, and they all knew the risks before signing up.

So he wasn’t a stranger to injuries, and he wouldn’t even say that this was the worst he had ever seen after visiting his mother’s emergency hospital.

But this was definitely the most injuries he had ever seen on someone he really cared about. 

Owen wasn’t even sure how it had really happened. 

He remembered running out of the building away from the fire that they had set in the middle of the compound, cutting it far too close as they always did when they were together. He remembered feeling Curt there, beside him, one minute, and then missing him the next. 

But the smoke was already filling his nostrils and if he stopped now there would be no time to ensure their target was still neutralized before the whole building went down and she could safely get away. 

So he checked, and she was still there, and then he ran safely into the fresh night air that was still filled with smoke from the fire, and he reluctantly waited for Curt. 

There mission was supposed to be an easy one. In. Out. Make sure the target was inside and incapacitated in a non-obvious or lethal way. Set a fire that looked accidental. No witnesses, one target, and a pulled fire alarm that ensured the least number of civilian casualties as possible. No missing partners. 

Check, check, check, and no check. 

When neither of them got a head start while the other finished setting up, it was true that Owen was usually the faster of the two and therefore the first out. But usually it was with Curt hot on his tail, ready to help him make one last check that the perimeter was secure before they booked it back to the car. But his partner was also distractible. He might have seen something fishy that he thought warranted -a hopefully brief- investigation. 

He forced himself to be calm and count to 100 before worrying. 

He only made it to 58 before frantically searching around for any sign that Curt was around, trying not to take his eyes off the meeting spot they had agreed upon that he had just left.

It was just before Owen was going to give up, call Cynthia and admit that he had somehow managed to lose her best agent, when he found a white envelope, held against a tree with a rather sharp looking knife. There was blood on it.

Owen gingerly removed the knife, careful to touch as little as possible in case there were fingerprints on it they could use, and opened the note. He felt his eyes grow wider as he read it.

_ Cavour. _

_ We have your partner. You may be getting him back, depending on if he agrees to cooperate. Do not try to look for him. I can guarantee you his odds of survival will decrease to none if you do not. _

_ The Deadliest Man Alive _

 

The paper made no sound as it dropped to the ground, accompanied by similarly silent tears. 

 

Thankfully, they had been in America for this mission, which meant it was only an hour car ride back to Curt’s headquarters. Well, technically it was a 2 hour car ride, but speed limits were more of a suggestion in times of crisis. And Owen definitely had a crisis on his hands.

 

“Barb! We have a problem!” Owen called as he opened the door to the lab, just in time to see a very red Tatiana jump out of the scientists lap. Barb swivelled her chair around to look at Owen with wide eyes, and nervously adjusted her glasses.

“O-Owen. This is not what it looks like!”

“Nevermind that, Curt’s been taken.”

“Taken?” Tatiana’s voice interrupted. “Owen? What do you mean he’s been taken.” 

He shoved the note into her hands instead of answering, and gave Barb the knife. 

“This was with that note, there may be some fingerprints or DNA on it.” Barb nodded at his words and began moving about to gather equipment before Tatina’s voice interrupted.

‘Don’t bother. You’ll find DNA on that knife, but it won’t help you. Curt was taken by the deadliest man alive.”

“Yes, I gathered from the note. Who is he exactly?”

“A man responsible for over 300 deaths. And not just political ones either. Civilians, other criminals, anyone he feels like. He works independently besides for a few occasional lackeyes he always kills after the job is done unless they’re too important. Russia has been after him for years, but none of the agents they’ve sent have been able to do anything.” She explained in a matter of fact way, but Owen could still hear the fear in her voice. She had worked with Curt a few times, when an American and a Russian were needed for the same mission. And besides that, they were friends. No one was exactly happy were their friends were kidnapped. 

“Why would he take Curt?” Barb exclaimed. Her hands were shaking from where they still held the knife, covered in what was probably Curt’s blood. 

“He must have had some sort of information he needed. We need to go see Cynthia, she would know what cases Curt has worked that might have caused this.” 

Owen knew she was right, he just hoped Cynthia wouldn’t do worse to him that whatever was being done to his partner.

-

“So, you somehow managed to get one of my best agents kidnapped by a man who calls himself the deadliest man alive, and who is well known for torturing information out of people before killing them after they give him what he wants.” It was a statement, not a question, and Cynthia gave Owen no time to answer before continuing, which was probably the kindest thing she had ever done. 

“God you are so lucky Daniel’s made me promise not to hurt you. Alright here’s the deal, shut up and listen, and if you interrupt me at any point Susan has my permission to toss you like a rag doll out the window. Do I make myself clear?” 

Again, she wasted no time it waiting for an answer beyond Owen’s nod.

“Curt was sent to do an investigation on a few mysterious deaths a little over a week ago. Now, all he was doing was investigating, but the whole thing screamed “deadliest man alive” so we put a temporary tracker in his arm in case things went bad. He was supposed to get it removed before this mission, but when we got the news that they were moving that shipment up and we had to send you out early there was no time. Therefore, we can track his location and you are the luckiest bastard on this entire goddamn planet, you little pip pip cheerio motherfucker.” Owen sagged with relief that they were going to be able to save his partner, and let the rather offensive remarks about his accent go. Curt was going to be okay.

-

Curt was not okay. 

When the tracker led them to an abandoned building, Owen had immediately been on high alert, but it was apparently unnecessary because Curt was alone, tied to a chair in the middle of a room. Unconscious and bleeding to death. 

The abandoned room made sense after Owen noticed while untying his partner a glowing green light emitting from his arm, standing out in the red blood of where a deep cut had been made. The man must have discovered it while he was  _ torturing  _ him and ran to prevent being captured.

Owen motioned for Tatiana to help him from where she had been standing guard at the door just in case. Curt was a bit bigger than both of them, but together they were able to carry the unconscious man to the car that was waiting outside.

Curt struggled slightly in the backseat as he apparently started to wake up, despite his numerous injuries. Owen, who had elected to sit with him and try to stem the bleeding while Tatina drove, immediately went to shush him and tell him not to waste unnecessary energy.

“No this is im… im-important,” Curt seemed to struggle to find the correct words. “He said. The guy. He said that he was looking for information on an uh. Diplomat. Yeah that’s the word. One for the country with the really funny accent? That always sound angry. I don’t know why he thought I would know. I think I missed something on my last case. Don’t tell… what’s her name? Cynthia! Don’t tell Cynthia I forgot her name.”

“Funny accent?” Tatiana asked from the front seat.

“I believe he means German. He says they always sound angry,” Owen explained with a small smile on his face as he tried to convince Curt to go back to sleep now that he told them the information.

“Ah.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Curt reassured needlessly. “Not even when he broke my fingers.” Owen winced at the admission.

“I know you didn’t. Didn’t you say you didn’t know what he was asking anyways?” He teased.

“Well yeah, but after that he started asking me about you. He was asking about why we work together so often. I told him I think my Cynthia and your Cynthia like each other but he didn’t believe me.” Tatiana tried to cover her snort with a cough. “And he was asking about you but I didn’t say anything. Did I do a good job?”

This surprised Owen. Curt very rarely asked for reassurement, but considering he had apparently just been tortured for him, Owen would have been a whole new kind of asshole to do anything but give it to the american spy. He ran his fingers through his hair reassuringly

“Of course, angel. You did wonderfully.”

He pretended not to notice the knowing look Tatiana sent him through the mirror.

 

* * *

 


	5. Doll/ Trying not to mcfreaking die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All medical knowledge in this is bullshited, and based off of this website https://medic.wikia.org/wiki/Special_considerations_for_gunshot_wounds_and_shrapnel_wounds  
> please don't try this in real life folks

_ Honey dear, want you near,  
Just turn out the lights and then come over here!... _

_ I love you so!  
Oh, you beautiful doll! _

_ -"Oh! You Beautiful Doll" Nancy Sinatra _

* * *

 

“Hey Owen?” 

“Yes, Curt?”

“How much farther to the meeting spot?”

“I have no idea. Just keep walking.”

“Oh.”

Normally, when Curt began asking questions like this Owen would get annoyed. Sometimes, he would suggest they take a brief break if they were doing well on time.

Time, however, was not on their side at the moment. 

The mission had honestly been doomed from the start, really. Curt was still barely over his extensive injuries after the fiasco with the deadliest man alive, who was apparently still after both of them. He had insisted he was fine though, and ready for his first mission back in the field. 

It was Owen’s first major mission as well since the event, since Daniel’s had given him a look of pity and told him he could take some time off to look after his  _ partner,  _ whatever the stress on that last word meant. So, they gave them both trackers in the case that the murderer who wanted them dead decided to kidnap them again, and sent off into the field the way a parent sends their child onto the school bus on the first day back from break. 

Owen was determined not to let something happen to Curt again, so he was sure to keep a constant eye on him, no matter how much the other scoffed when he noticed. 

It seemed the universe was irrationally angry that they were back in the field.

On the first day, a day that was supposed to be some laid back intelligence gathering undercover at a casino, Owen had somehow or another gotten pushed down a flight of stairs. Luckily, Curt had noticed in time to stop the men who did it from doing anything more, and they determined that it had just been some random thugs who thought Owen had cheated them at poker. They had nothing to do with their mission, which somehow didn’t make Owen’s sprained ankle feel any better. Neither of the two ended up getting any information that would help except that apparently Owen was too good at poker for his own good. It was time for plan B. 

The next day, when they attempted a plan B, which was supposed to be an even more laid back stake out, Curt had somehow managed to tear his stitches (which proved that he was  _ not  _ ready to be back in the field) when he was chasing what appeared to be one of their suspects. It wasn’t, but that didn’t take the blood stains out of Curt’s shirt or prevent Owen from having to sew him back up in his hotel room bathroom. The delay meant they missed the drop off, and they were going to have to move on to plan C.  

Really, they should have known to call it off before the third day. If the first two plans, that were incredibly easy in comparison to plan C, went that badly, what hope did this plan have? Plan C involved the infiltration of a remote bunker in a forest, where there would hopefully be a folder that contained very sensitive information. Since they had failed plan A, to get one of the men that worked at the bunker drunk enough to just say it, and plan B, to intercept the drop off of the folder before it was moved to the bunker, this was their last hope.

It was their last hope, and one of them was still recovering from being tortured and had fresh stitches, and the other was covered in bruises and had a sprained ankle.

Owen sincerely hoped it wasn’t too late to become an actor.

Really, neither of them could have known what they were walking into. Nor could Barb, for all her seemingly infinite knowledge. Or really anyone else on the face of the planet.

Nothing they knew about these people suggested they were willing to blow up their entire base after raining heavy gunfire on the two spies the moment they entered the bunker. 

Owen recalled feeling something warm, and looking down to see a rapidly expanding pool of blood soaking through his shirt sleeve. His mouth formed an ‘o’ as his mind tried to work through the sudden flog to reconcile the sight with the pain that was shooting through his forearm.

Then he heard a sudden barely registered shout, and he was being forced to turn around and run, before being shoved to the ground with someone on top of him. Then, his whole vision went red and his ears were filled with ringing.

It was a few seconds, but it might as well have been a year later when the person- Curt, his still slow mind realized- carefully rolled off of him. He was saying something, but the ringing was still too loud.

“-wen? Owen!” 

“Curt? What happened?”

“Someone must have tipped them off or something. The whole bunkers gone.” Owen almost assumed he misheard due to the still obnoxious ringing, before looking over and realizing there was indeed what looked like a charred hole where the building had been before. 

“I- Was I- I mean did I get…” He still couldn’t manage to make his mind work fast enough to connect these frustratingly easy points.

“Yeah, they got a lucky shot in when we opened the door. And I feel like I’ve got an entire cars worth of metal in my back from that explosion too,” Curt answered with a dry half-snort. 

“We can’t stay here,” Owen realized suddenly through the fog. “We’re too injured and exposed. They might have more people waiting to finish us of.”

“Complete suicide bombing does seem a little unusual for these guys," he agreed. "But, Owen. Do you really think we can make it anywhere in this state?” Curt’s eyes shone with pain, but Owen knew he would pull himself off the ground and make the trek to meeting point if he thought they had to.

“We’ve both got our trackers after the deadliest man alive fiasco, but they’re not going to check those until we’re at least half an hour late for the rendezvous. If my watch is still right that’s four hours from now. By that point at least one of us probably would have bleed out,” he said with confidence he definitely didn’t feel. With each passing second, someone sticking around to finish them off seemed less and less likely, but they had expected this infiltration mission to take much longer, so it was true that Barb, who was waiting for them at the rendezvous point at the edge of the forest, wouldn’t be alerted that anything was amiss for hours. They were losing blood fast. 

“Shit,” Curt sighed as he became increasingly aware that this was their only hope. “Okay we have to play doctor first. What have we got?”

“Not much except our shirts to use as rags.” Owen said distractedly, trying to remember his mandatory first aid training. “Okay shrapnel wounds… don’t remove, don’t worry about stopping bleeding, clean as soon as possible.”

“I think I’ve got half a water bottle in my bag if you don’t need it for your gunshot wound instead,” Curt offered. 

“No, we need to clean your wound and tourniquet my arm. Do you think you can tear some rags off your shirt while I flush your back?” 

Curt silently took stock of his pain, then, deciding he wouldn’t pass out if tried, nodded. Owen moved to the bag Curt had been carrying earlier and removed a water bottle, little more than halfway full. He opened it with his mouth while holding it carefully with one arm, and waited while Curt gingerly tried to remove his shirt. 

Only the front of it would be usable, the back was far too badly torn and singed, but it would be enough to tie around Owen’s arm to cut off his blood flow. 

Curt hissed in pain as he ran the cold water over his wounded back, but Owen was pleased to note it was infinitely better than it could have been. The building must have imploded more than exploded, for there were only a few small pieces of shrapnel in his partner, and most of the issue seemed to be from the burns. It was still most likely going to be a nasty infection, but he would be fine.

Finishing, he tossed the bottle back into the bag, and allowed Curt to tie the makeshift tourniquet tightly, just above his left elbow.

“Do you think my shirt would fit you well enough to not press too tightly against your wounds? You shouldn’t leave them exposed like that.” Owen asked. Curt considered and decided it would have to do. Owen carefully removed his shirt with one arm and handed it to his partner, who gingerly slipped it on.

“Thank god you always insist on wearing these stuffy button ups or else I would never have been able to get this on,” he joked. Indeed, he had left the front unbuttoned to allow his significantly more broad frame to manage to wear it.

“You realize we’re wearing each other’s shirts right night,” Owen laughed somewhat hysterically, which he privately thought to himself was perfectly reasonable, as he instructed Curt in tying another slip of fabric around the wound.

“I don’t know if he counts if you’re wearing mine as rags, doll.”

“Doll?” Owen asked with a raised brow. Curt flushed slightly and quickly finished tying the wound.

“We’re always calling each other things like that. Why is doll so much more weird than angel?”

“You remember that?” Now it was Owen’s turn to blush. 

“I remember everything you say.”

Before Owen could respond to that, Curt was unsteadily pushing himself to his feet.

“C’mon, we’ve got to get a move on before it gets dark.” It would be at least another two hours before it was dark, but Owen just stood and followed him.

* * *

 

“We better get at least a month off after this,” Curt spoke a few minutes after questioning how far away the meeting point was. 

“Really? You seemed rather eager to get back in the field after you were-” Owen cut himself off.

“Tortured. I was tortured. The magic t word.” Curt laughed not unkindly. “You can say it.”

“Tortured, yes,” Owen said with an eye roll. “So why so excited to get time off this time?”

“Well, I just guess I just wanted to spend time with you again. But now we’re all terribly injured together and I can spend all my medical leave annoying you and making fun of you trying to do things with your right arm like the whole rest of the world.”

“I’m pretty sure a fourth of the world’s population is left handed actually,” Owen snorted, before the smile suddenly left his face. “Hey, stop doing that!”

“Doing what?” Curt asked innocently.

“Saying nice things and then never giving me a chance to respond.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s to say I won’t be staying at your flat and annoying you?” Owen asked instead of expanding on what he meant.

“First of all, they’re called apartments. Secondly, you would never stay at mine. It’s not posh enough for you.”

“You make it sound like I’m the Queen of England,” Owen laughed again. “My flats about the size of a cardboard box with paper thin walls and neighbors who loudly have sex at all hours of the day.”

“Yikes,” Curt made a show of wincing, before smiling and continuing playfully. “Yeah, maybe you’ll have to crash at mine then. I’ll have to go grocery shopping first though. I think I have a jar of pickles and half a bottle of slightly expired orange juice at home now.”

“Of course you do. Honestly, how you’re even still alive amazes me,” he rolled his eyes.

“You’ll just have to come with me and teach me how to actually buy groceries then, if you’re so good at it.”

“I’d like that,” Owen said with such open honesty that Curt couldn’t help but look over at him, from where he was walking slightly in front of him. His face was covered in sweat, and his eyebrows were bunch together betraying what was most likely considerable pain, but there was a smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Curt said with a smile of his own. “It does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was supposed to be more after this but i leave for vacation tm and i dont have time to write the scene so i'll probably just allude to it in the final chapter lmao  
> Hope you enjoyed this final chapter of them suffering, the next chapter will be more fluff!!


	6. There's 100 ways to say I love you, but those words are my favorite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is nearly 3000 words. Does that makes up for how late I am? probably not. Just enjoy it fuckos i've been busy

+1

Their time off was quickly passing in a blur of pain medicine and far more sleeping than grocery shopping. Which, honestly, neither of the two were really complaining about. What they were complaining about, however, was how the other was too stubborn to fucking just share the bed with them goddamn it.

Because of course, Curt Mega would only own one bed. He was a barely 30 years old bachelor living in an apartment, and he hadn’t exactly been expecting to play host soon. Upon learning this, Owen had, reluctantly, offered to go home, but their supervisors (and his doctor) were having none of it. Apparently you can’t “fly with a bullet wound” because it would “exacerbate a very serious wound” and “Owen are you fucking crazy.” He had hidden his happiness at this at the time, but now he was almost wishing they had allowed him to take the flight anyways, because if Curt goddamn Mega offered to sleep on the couch one more time he was going to rip out his usually perfect but lately slightly greasy from the annoyed hands running through it hair. It was times like this that made him itch for another cigarette. 

But he couldn’t just say to the other man “Well, how about if we share your bed tonight?” because, honestly, Owen was many things, but he wasn’t quite  _ that  _ bold. Besides, he had no good excuse for why he would want to. It would honestly probably be far more harsh on their injuries, and hot as hell (and not in the good way,) but all he could think of is the weight of another person sleeping next to him, and he really wanted that person to be Curt. But right now, the task of asking for that seemed much more daunting than the task of walking through a forest with a bullet wound and a sprained ankle had been. 

“God I need more ice.” Curt’s groan shook Owen out of his thoughts. Without looking up from the book he had been blankly staring he called back.

“Where did you get ice in the first place? I specifically didn’t buy any because you’re supposed to be applying heat, not ice,” Owen sighed. The only answer was a groan.

He stood from the couch, carefully placed his book to the side with one arm, and walked through the doorway from the living room to see his partner lying face down the tile floor of his small kitchen. The infected wound on his back was on view from where he had decided to go shirtless when the cloth kept making the pain from the wound unbearable. Despite himself, Owen couldn’t help but laugh slightly.

“Oh, sure laugh at my pain,” Curt whined, without taking his face off the floor. This only made Owen laugh harder.

“Sorry, love, it’s just…” he trailed off as more laughter bubbled out. “You look rather ridiculous lying on the floor like that.”

“It’s the coolest place in the apartment. I feel like I’m boiling alive.”

“Well, infections tend to do that, dear.”

“Fuck you,” he groaned again, causing Owen to once more laugh.

“I could be of being a world renowned actor right now,” Owen sighed wistfully as he retrieved an ice pack from the fridge and dropped it by Curt’s head on the floor. “But instead I’m here, with a hole in my arm watching my partner lay face down on his dirty apartment floor.”

“Y’know I wouldn’t even have gotten hurt if I wasn’t trying to save your ass.”

“Well, I would say that is your job, but thank you.” 

“My job is to save the world and look good while doing it, nothing in my job description says anything about keeping a pretty British dumbass safe from exploding buildings.”

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Owen asked rather than explain that the point of spies having partners was to watch out for one another. 

“I think that’s been established.” Curt pushed himself off the ground before Owen could respond to this, and suddenly he was no longer talking to his partners back but his face. “We both look like shit right now, actually.”

“I don’t think anyone can expect us to look our best when we’re up to our eyeballs on pain medication. I don’t know how we’re even holding coherent conversations right now.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love that these fuckers stop me from feeling the fucking mess that is my back, but I wish they didn’t make me so goddamn hungry.” Owen hummed in agreement.

“Mine make me more tired than anything, but I think we at least got enough to make sandwiches when we gave up halfway through shopping.” Curt groaned at the knowledge that he was actually going to have to make food if he wanted to eat it and walked over to the fridge. He began pulling out ingredients then, remembering that he was technically a host at the moment, asked,

“Do you want one too? I mean, all we really have is bread and sliced deli meat and we’ll probably end up ordering pizza or something in a few hours, but you know. Sandwiches.” Curt made a gesture that was a sort of half shrug, half pointing to the bread slices on the counter next to him, and Owen laughed again. He thought to himself privately after turning down the offer that if getting shot in the arm was what it took to spend time with Curt between missions, so be it. 

* * *

 

“Did you actually think about being an actor before becoming a spy?” Curt asked suddenly, and Owen was momentarily so distracted by the fact that he had asked the question with a mouth full of Chinese food that he forgot to comprehend what he was being asked. 

“I don’t know about you, but spy wasn’t exactly my first career choice as a child.” This, admittedly, was a bit of a bull shit non answer, but he was still a little busy being disgusted by the sight of his partner not bothering to chew his lo mein before randomly grilling him about his hopes and dreams.

“Actually I did always want to be a spy. Well, it was more like something vague along the lines of police officer or some shit, but it was always my answer for those ‘what you want to be when you grow up’ questions.” Suddenly the slightly nostalgic smile slid off his face to be replaced by a fake serious look as he jabbed his fork in Owen’s direction, the piece of broccoli at the end coming dangerously close to falling off onto the couch below them. It had been a funny conversation in their first week of living together, when Owen had discovered the other had no idea how to use chopsticks and would only eat with a fork, but he had been banned from mentioning it. “But you, mister, didn’t answer my question. Tell me about young Owen Cavour’s dreams of Broadway.”

“First of all dear, Broadway is for musicals, and those people are called performers, not actors.”

“You and your syntax,” Curt huffed. “I only know that word because of how often you lecture me on it!”

“Well if you’re going to be like that I won’t tell you all about how I stole the show in a high school production of  _ Midsummer Night’s Dream. _ ” 

“Oh no, please do go on,” Curt laughed. And Owen did. And suddenly they were talking about their teenage years back and forth until their take-out was cold and abandoned on the coffee table in front of them. They hardly noticing time passing as they laughed between tales of ill-thought out piercings and what could definitely be described as an insanely unhealthy amount of alcohol.

It was not lost on either of them that this was quite possibly the most they’ve ever shared of their lives before each other, before spying. It also did not go ignored that this was probably due to the fact that they were both high oxycodone. But as they slowly realized they were falling deeper and deeper into this pit they can find themselves trapped in, they couldn’t really bring themselves to care. 

* * *

It was T-minus 8 days until he was flying back to England, and Owen’s frustration was starting to come back as he realized that he was quickly losing time to confess his feelings for his partner before they were back in different countries. 

It wasn’t that he was worried Curt was going to be homophobic. The spy had actually told him the story of how he had accidentally come out during high school during an incident at football tryouts. Nothing to worry about there. 

He wasn’t even really worried that the feelings wouldn’t be reciprocated. Maybe it was just his ego talking, but sometimes he would catch Curt watching him when he thought he wasn’t looking. They weren’t exactly looks you gave your best friend. 

Besides, if something went wrong all he had to do was go to Daniels and ask not to partner with him anymore. After getting shot in the arm during their last mission together, it was doubtful she would deny him. Owen was rather good at running away from problems and he had all of his escape plans mapped out. Really, there was absolutely no excuse for him to not just blurt out the words. Except that therein lies the problem of him having no idea what to say. 

He couldn’t just invite him somewhere and hope he got the idea that it was a date without it being spelled out for him, they were currently living together and had practically been attached at the hip since they were both trying to hide their worried hovering over the other’s injuries. Curt would just assume Owen wanted to eat out that night and would think nothing of it. 

He would feel far too juvenile simply walking up to Curt and announcing he “liked” him. It was far too early for love in his opinion, but phrasing it any other way made it sound like a schoolyard crush instead of him confessing his affection for the man he once infiltrated a neo-Nazi organization with. He was running out of time, patience, and ideas. 

Spies were supposed to be brave, but Owen was feeling more and more with every passing day, with every night that he didn’t put up a fight about one of them sleeping on the couch, with every glance that went on for too long but went by without a word, that he was truly a coward.

* * *

It was the last night before Owen went back to England, and coincidentally Curt’s first day completely med free. Curt, of course, felt the occasion necessitated celebration

Which is apparently why Owen was being dragged to a bar that was so loud and crowded there was no possible way it was meeting the max capacity regulations. 

“Having fun?” Owen almost shouted over the music. The lights were giving him a migraine and he swore he could feel the pumping bass in his teeth, but it would be worth it for Curt.

“Honestly? Not as much as I thought it would be.” Came the equally loud response. Well there went that thought.

“Let’s get out of here then, I'd rather not be around when a fire martial gets called.”

* * *

“Were there actually three separate bachelorette parties going on in there?” Curt asked incredulously. Owen’s laugh filled the empty night air around them.

“I think one of them was a birthday party,” he answered.

“Whatever they were, they were loud,” he grumbled.

“I thought you would be used to it by now, with how much time you seem to spend at bars.”

“I guess a month of not drinking can change your tolerance. I think I was already getting tipsy from one beer.” They both laughed again, and then they were quiet. They walked a little further, the only noise being their quiet breathing and the sounds of nearby traffic.

Eventually, Owen realized Curt was no longer walking beside him, and he turned to look at him in confusion.

“I don’t want to go back to my apartment yet,” he explained. 

“Well, unless you were planning on another bar, there’s not going to be much open this late.” Curt looked momentarily put out, before a look of excitement took over.

“C’mon, I know a place,” he said, grabbing Owen’s hand and marching forward. Owen flushed slightly, but made no move to pull his hand away and simply let Curt guide him through the city streets that were so familiar to him but so foreign to Owen.

Eventually, they arrived at a park which was… not what Owen had been expecting. Noticing the look on his face, Curt scoffed.

“What? You think I just go to shitty bars and sit around all day? Even guys like me go outside sometimes,” he was smiling while he said this.

“No offense intended, dear, it just struck me as odd.”

“Well, I usually only come here to people watch. See that fountain over there?” Curt pointed at a spot over Owen’s shoulder, where there was indeed a fountain, made up of small jets of water on the ground randomly shouting up into the air. He noticed a few kids playing in it. “There’s always a bunch of tourists with little kids over there, it’s hilarious. One time, a kid threw a bagel right in the middle, and a bunch of birds tried to fly at it and ended up getting shot with water.”    
“I should have known the only reason you would go to a park is to make fun of children and birds,” Owen laughed. He was starting to wonder if he had laughed more this past month than he had in his entire life thus far. 

“There’s a bench over there, wanna sit for a bit? I know you have an early flight tomorrow, but…” he trailed off, seemingly lost for words. The moment seemed almost too real, Curt staring at him with a look he couldn’t read, illuminated by the street lamps that gave his skin a soft glow . It almost felt like, if he let it, the moment would swallow him whole, and Curt would be left standing there alone in the moonlight. Owen ran from real,  so he decided to do what he did best. Ruin the moment. 

“I would hardly call eleve a.m. early,” he scoffed. “Let’s go sit, see if we can’t find any tourists to make fun of.” And just like that, the moment vanished. Owen almost rubbed his eyes for the way the glow on his partner’s face seemed to disappear, and he was suddenly aware of their surroundings instead of just the person in front of him. Terrible behavior for a spy, really.

“You’re basically a tourist too y’know,” Curt laughed and led him over to the bench. He was suddenly aware that their hands were still locked together.

“Well, in that case, I have the best tour guide.”

The sat in silence for awhile, but it was far from awkward. They seemed to just share in the mutual feeling of contentment, looking up at the moon together and abandoning their mission to laugh at those around them. There was a sense of bitterness as well, the knowledge that this was the last night they could do this. 

“I’m going to miss you,” Curt said suddenly, like Owen’s melancholy truly had appeared in the air and swirled between them. “Tomorrow, when you leave. It won’t be the same without you around anymore.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be glad to have your bed back at least,” Owen said. And they laughed. And the moment wavered. But for once in Owen’s life the moment didn’t shatter. It came back, almost stronger, and the intensity in Curt’s eyes from where he was still looking at the moon and not Owen seemed to glow.

“It just won’t be the same,” he repeated quietly.

“Well, we’ll be back on missions in no time. Cynthia and Daniels know not to keep their A-team apart for long,” he assured.

“You’re kidding yourself if you think we’re not on paperwork duty for at least a month,” he scoffed lightly. “And anyways,” the quiet in his voice was back, and Owen resisted the urge to shiver. “I don’t want the next time I see you to be when we’re running for our lives. I’m beginning to like the Owen Cavour that’s not in fight or flight mode. I want to keep him around a little longer.”

And this time, Owen didn’t even feel the urge to break the moment. Instead, he tightened his grip on their already interlocked fingers and replied.

“I want you to, too. Because-” he hesitated, for only a moment, but in this moment, his thoughts from earlier seemed so far away and ridiculous. In the moonlight with the barest of breeze flowing around them, it seemed like none of his made up rules mattered anymore. “-I’m beginning to love the Curt Mega who sits at parks and people watches and doesn’t know how to use chopsticks.”

Suddenly, Curt turned to look at him, and the gaze in his eyes was so intense it nearly stole his breath.

“I think I love you, Owen Cavour.”

“I think I love you too, Curt Mega.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing every chapter up to this: ughhhh writing owen's perspective is so hardddddd  
> me, writing this chapter: hey instead of switching back and forth like i have drafted, i'm going to write exclusively owen's perspective  
> Hey it's finally done!!!  
> This is the first multi-chap i've finished all the way through in quite a while, so i'm super grateful to all y'all who stuck around and read every chapter, especially everyone who commented and let me know people actually liked this, which convinced me to keep writing.  
> i know this last chapter is pretty late, but i hope you all enjoyed it none-the-less. It was a bit hard trying to do all the development in one chapter since i kinda forgot to do it earlier lmao  
> I feel like i made owen a little angsty, but i feel like he's someone who's really scared of being vulnerable around people, so he's fucking terrified of how in love he is with curt.  
> i tried to really capture the moment in the last scene, i hope it doesnt sound too pretentious?? idk  
> let me know what you thought of this story with a comment!!! i'm into constructive criticism, as long as it's constructive. this was a bit of an experiment for me in writing longer stuff, so let me know if you thought i could've done the development in a better way or something.  
> hope you enjoyed uwu

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope you enjoy this! im putting a lot more effort into some components of this than i usually do for fics, so i hope this turns out well!  
> every chapter will have a sort of pet name that one of the characters will use, and hopefully there will be song lyrics before every chapter to reflect them


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